Roy Bean's Gold (23 page)

But Dulcima was anything but a China doll. She certainly had a mind of her own. I'd seen that. So neither Diamond Dick, nor Rosita, or even Major McGuire himself was going to do any thinking for her, I was certain. At least I was pretty certain.

Finally I put aside the handbill and, taking up the paper, read of the discovery of the largest nugget since 1848 out on the American River, and of the arrival of such flash clippers as the
Sea Witch
from Bristol and the
Surprise
from Boston.

Reading along the columns I ran across a certain James King, who seemed to be having a run of bad luck. He advertised for the return of his prime riding horse, Bolivar, lost, strayed, or stolen from his barn out on Jackson. He also asked help in recovering a runaway house slave named Champ. He offered $100 reward for the mount and $50 for his black man, probably because Bolivar had four legs to Champ's two.

Jackstraw's Pharmacy on Sacramento was proud to announce that they'd just received the latest shipment from back East of Dr. Wheeler's Universally Celebrated Balsam of Moscatello:
The most valuable vegetable preparation discovered for the cure of cholera morbus and the dangerous effects of drinking cold water when overheated.
They also stocked Phoenix Blue Bitters, claiming it as
the most effectual remedy extant for the cure of each and every disease to which man is subject!

That made some mighty compelling reading, but what really made me sit up and put my feet on the floor was an item at the bottom of the second page announcing the grand reopening, after previous fire damage, in just two weeks of
the Celebrated Jenny Lind Theater, at the corner of Washington and Kearny on the Square.

The story went on to state that Colonel—he'd promoted himself—Thomas Mulcahey McGuire, proprietor of the theater, in addition to sending out several companies to entertain the outlying camps and districts, also planned opening the local season with the appearance of several outstanding thespians. These included
the great Junius Booth, as well as the brilliant Caroline Chapman.
They were to be featured in the opening production of
All That Glitters Is Not Gold
, which had its first showing in New York just six months earlier.

But that was not the least, for Colonel McGuire also promised
to make the evening absolutely tip-top, that newest young sensation of the stage, Miss Lorette La Fonte will also appear in several delightful songs and sketches!

All this made my mind a bit tipsy, so, as I often did, I got out Jeff Kirker's $10 gold piece from my money belt and inspected it again for the hundredth time. Again I wondered at the odd markings on the coin. They had to mean something, but, cipher as I might, I still couldn't puzzle it out. Well, as the Spanish had it, there were always plenty of
mañanas
around. And in just about a dozen
mañanas
Dulcima should be right here in San Francisco. I put away the coin, blew out the lamp, and lay in the dark. Just as I was drifting off, there came the rumble of thunder, another racketing clap much nearer, then more rolling out over the hills beyond town. I was nearly asleep by then, but was still aware of a velvety rushing downpour. The first of the fall-time rains had begun.

The rains slackened next morning and up and quit by 9:00, so I got White Lightning from the livery and rode up Stockton and out Columbus to get away from the noisy bustle of the city and do some thinking.

North San Francisco had the same hilly make-up as the southern section, but it seemed to have more sandy beaches and sheltered coves. There were also fewer houses out past the sand hills, and I soon came to an elevation overlooking the shining stretch of water between the two peninsulas they called the Golden Gate.

There seemed to be a couple of miles of open water across to the steep reaches of the Marin Hills to the northwest. Several small sailing ships were moving out through the gate, and, as I sat White Lightning, I saw the new propeller steamer
Kangaroo
on its way eastward across the great Bay to San Antonio Landing, which was getting to be called Oakland. The Marin Hills themselves cradled a small fishing village, Sausalito, which in the distance looked about like a pinch of white gravel tossed onto a green pillow.

I'd heard there were several wide-open gambling dens and cathouses at Sausalito, but San Francisco had plenty for me—and the whole of California, for that matter.

I had counted my money that morning and found the cash Josh had stowed in my blanket roll was now $198. It was plain to see that I'd best keep my nose out of any games, unless I felt mighty lucky.

Though I gave myself plenty of time to think things over, about all I came to decide was that I'd walk mighty easy around Powers when he showed up. I didn't want to get into any more shooting scrapes when I was this close to the gold—wherever it might be—and even closer to Dulcima. But if Diamond Dick showed fight, I'd not back down one iota.

On the ride out to the point and back, I did manage to draft up a short letter to Josh in my head. When I returned to my room after dinner I got pen and paper and wrote it down:

Brother Josh,

I'm here at the San Francisco House, having arrived in one piece yesterday.

I've not run across Salazar yet, but most talk has him and a tinhorn vigilante, named Love, out beating the brush for Murieta. But not together.

This is one jim-dandy city, over forty thousand, and growing by leaps and bounds. If your election doesn't pan out, you ought to come up here. Tell Abraham, Bates, and Flea
mucho
thanks for their help. It goes without saying that I surely thank you most of all!

Hope to hear from you shortly. Be sure and give the Castañeda family my best.

Your brother Roy

There was no use in sending greetings to Dulcima. She'd get them in person, mighty shortly.

* * * * *

Though the next day was Sunday, no one without a calendar would have guessed it, except for the fact that the visiting miners seemed to be wearing their best red shirts. While there were more miners in town than ever, the supply of professional gamblers seemed to be equal to the red-shirted invasion.

Reminding myself that I was out to spend some time and little money, I visited a good half dozen of the most fancy halls with their great glass chandeliers and wall-to-ceiling mirrors. There in the Empire, the Arcade, and the Mazurka I found most of the dealers to be Frenchwomen in mighty low-cut gowns. These handled the faro banks and roulette layouts, while their slick-looking male partners sat around in boiled dickies and fancy frock coats, dealing blackjack and poker. These gents seemed to be mainly French and Italian, with a scattering of Yankee gamblers.

Most of the places stuck to a pair of squeaky violins, an out-of-tune guitar, and an asthmatic flute, but the Bella Union offered a Mexican string quartet with two harps, two guitars, and a handsomely played flute.

Sabbath or not, the halls kept up to twenty tables running full blast. Mexicans sat absolutely motionless, except for eyes and hands, winning or losing $1,000 on the turn of a card. Sober-faced Chinese played at low-stake craps with scarcely a sound, except for the rattle and snap of the bones. But most of the assembled Americans, miners, stage drivers, and sailors, whooped, bawled, and cussed at the top of their lungs—and seemed to have the very time of their lives.

Finally I left the last hall with its pretty but cold-eyed Frenchwomen dealers and walked down to the Fontine House, a small but tidy restaurant at the corner of Kearny and Sacramento. There I blew myself to a Sunday dinner of grizzly bear steak, which tasted right close to good lean pork. Like other better eating houses around town, this spot offered a whopping bill of fare at all seasons. There were such items on the menu to make any back-East swell hold a debate with himself before ordering: elk, deer, antelope, turtle, hare, partridge, quail, wild geese, brant, all sorts of ducks, snipe, plover, curlew, cranes, salmon, trout, and other fish, along with oysters.

The meals ran around $2 and only $3 with a good bottle of wine thrown in—and that wine straight from Paris.

As I sat there in the small group of diners, men of all sorts and trades, who kept their mouths shut except to tie into the vittles, I got to thinking of my recent troubles and retreat up the territory when a face began drifting through my thoughts. It wasn't Dulcima, Corporal Bates, or one of the Castañeda girls; then I remembered it was a face I'd seen in San Francisco, the face of one of the Mexican gamblers who'd sat at monte in a corner of the Alhambra.

As I thought over the last hour or two, I recalled how my eyes had met those of a handsome, quietly dressed young Mexican. The fellow had been coldly polite. Though he hadn't known me, I was certain, as I'd walked through the crowd, he'd bowed his head an instant and then turned back to his game of monte.

It was Hechavarría!—the man who'd killed Sánchez and vowed to kill Josh. Hechavarría, alias Joaquín Murieta, or one of the two Joaquíns. And here he was in San Francisco.

I was positive as I thought back on it, and I'd have bet all of Kirker's gold that I'd seen his portrait as a young officer on old
Señor
Hechavarría's dining room wall not two months back. Carlos Hechavarría!

Still mulling over Hechavarría's appearance, I paid my bill and stepped out into a foggy evening. As I slowly eased down the wooden sidewalk toward my hotel, I got to wondering if, somehow, I could reveal myself to the bandit, without a fight, and square Josh, explaining that my brother was innocent of the midnight lynchings at San Diego.

Thinking about it, I stopped on the corner of the next street, trying to get my bearings in the hazy light cast by streetlamps where they glowed through the chilly fog in a palely fading chain that seemed to vanish into nothingness half a block ahead. Everything was subdued by the drifting fog. Even sounds drifting down from the roistering gambling houses were muffled and subdued.

Suddenly through the distant shouts and wavering twang of guitars and whining chirp of fiddles came the
clop-clop-clop
of horses pulling an approaching vehicle.

For an instant I couldn't see the oncoming carriage, then it floated out of the swirling silver, a dark blur carried toward me by a ghostly team, whose heads bobbed in and out of the mists, horses without bodies or legs.

I stepped back against the front of a building, waiting for it to pass, but the carriage halted under one of the streetlamps and I could see the motionless driver upon his box, swathed in serape and slouch hat.

The vehicle's curtains were closed, but as I watched, ready to move, a woman's pale hand appeared at the near window and slowly pulled aside the blind.

That hand beckoned to me, and, as I leaned in toward the carriage, hand upon my pistol, I could make out the face of a woman, all but hidden in the half light.

“Roy,
acercate, mi querido amigo
.” And it was the voice of Rosita Almada, calling to me out of the night.

I
got into the carriage, hand still near my pistol and then, at Rosita's quiet laughter, settled myself beside her on the leather seat.

She gave an order to the man on the box and we rolled on through the foggy night. For a spell neither of us spoke as the hazy yellow circles of the streetlamps drifted past, and then were gone in the darkness. We seemed to be heading down toward the waterfront, then our course changed and the horses began the long pull up toward Telegraph Hill.

“Here!” she called to the coachman, and at last the vehicle rocked to a stop. I'd been content just to sit beside her and feel the soft warmth of her hip against mine. But Rosita Almada always knew just what she was about, always seemed in complete control of events, and I knew she'd not just suddenly appeared out of the fog to swoop me off for a secret buggy ride.

After a polite word or two had been swapped about each other's health, she got down to business. “Did you know that Carlos Hechavarría is here in the north. and it could be dangerous if he was aware that you are in the city?”

“I saw him just tonight in a gambling hall. recognized him from that painting at his father's
rancho
. But why dangerous to me?”

She placed a firm little hand on my arm. “He's sworn to kill your brother, or anyone connected with him. He's determined to wipe out the dishonor of Joshua Bean's lynching of his men. And as you know he's made a start by getting that ugly deputy of the
alcalde
's.”

“And he'd get rid of me if he knew who I was?”

“Yes, he's had some plans go wrong lately, and now he lashes out at anyone he has
la ojeriza
. the grudge. against.” She leaned toward me, and I could sense her warmth and the sweetness of her breath. “I have a certain regard. no, more than just that, a certain
afición
for you.” She paused, then continued. “You, in your
Americano
way, have become quite dear to me. And, perhaps, I am bold and shameless as ever to say this.” She gave her husky laugh. “But I am Red Rosita.”

In that moment, when she was so close to me, I was also mighty close to grabbing her—and kissing that sweet, laughing mouth; then there came a sudden thought of that little stiletto.

“Josh had nothing to do with those lynchings,” I muttered, just to have something to say. “It was that shifty sidewinder of a Dick Powers.” Then I told her of the escapades at San Diego, my head-on clash with Diamond Dick, and my escape from jail. “Before I left, I found that my brother's servant, Abraham, had been a part of your family's
rancho
for years. and the pipeline to Murieta. your brother. Why didn't Abraham let you know that Josh was innocent of those midnight raids?”

“He did, from the start, though he'd not discovered who was guilty. But there was such suspicion and rumor among the gang members that Carlos refused to believe that anyone but a powerful man such as Joshua Bean could be directing the brutality.”